


Open Doors

by futureboy (PokeRowan)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Advent Fic, Friendship, Gen, Gift Giving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PokeRowan/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: December, 1984. Whether gifts or simple gestures, the residents of Hawkins, Indiana are feeling particularly generous this year.A series of exchanges between various characters. Advent fic - updates every day leading up to the 25th.





	1. Max and Will+Jonathan

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to let me know of any typos/mistakes. Also, spelling disclaimer because I'm British, lmao.

**December 1st, 1984 - Friday**

 

“Did you bring it?” is the first thing out of Will’s mouth, as he flings open the door. All the heat escapes into the beginnings of an Indiana winter, but neither of them are particularly bothered by it.

Max holds up an Atari cartridge.

“Who do you think I am, Byers?”

“A Dig Dug champion,” he grins, rolling his eyes. “Come on, I linked up the console already.”

They slide into the living room; Max kneels by the Atari and blows in the cartridge for good measure, before plugging it in. “The graphics aren’t as good as the arcade version, but it’s nice not to burn through all my quarters,” she says, and switches it on. The title screen pops up, complete with the Atari logo that scrolls through the different colours.

“It’s just nice to get some practice in, for me,” Will admits.

“What’s your highest score again?”

“I can get two hundred thousand on a good day. Three hundred thousand is my highest ever, I think, but it’s still nowhere near Dustin’s.... And Dustin’s score doesn’t even touch _yours_.”

“You’ll both get there,” Max smirks.

“Liar.”

“Yeah, too true. Okay, you go first, I’ll give you pointers.”

The two of them burrow under a layer of blankets in front of the coffee table - the controllers don’t stretch far enough for them to sit on the sofa, but neither of them particularly care. Will shuffles on the cushion he’s sitting on, trying to settle in to the rhythm of the game; Max hums along to the theme music as he breezes through the first few levels.

“You’re doing great so far.”

“Hey, thanks,” Will replies, and tries to resist the temptation of turning around at the sound of the front door shutting.

“Jesus, it’s cold out there. Oh, hey, Will, hey there, Max,” mumbles Jonathan, and doesn’t even bother taking off his gloves before rifling through the cassettes in their hi-fi unit. “Playing Dig Dug?”

“As ever,” Will says. He sticks his tongue out slightly in concentration.

“You’re a mixtape guy, right?” Max asks. “Can you conjure up, I don’t know, a training montage playlist? I think he’s gonna need it--”

She feels a surge of self-satisfaction when Jonathan barks sharply with laughter. Especially when Will protests feebly and promptly dies on-screen.

“I’ll see what I can do,” is the amused reply, before he retreats into his room.

Max doesn’t bother giving out tips for level one. They gaze at the sluggishness of the first stage, before she interjects to fill the gaps: “your brother’s kinda cool.”

“Don’t let him fool you, he’s as much of a loser as I am,” Will giggles.

“Maybe you’re kinda cool too, Byers, don’t push your luck.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

The two are still in the early days of their friendship, but Max is quickly discovering that the quietest member of The Party has the sharpest eye for detail. Even when pouring his attention into a video game, Will manages to pick up on the minutiae of the conversation.

“Sorry about your step-brother,” he says, skipping over the _‘how are things with Billy’_ pretence - as though the two of them would ever be anything more than ‘not murdering each other’.

“It’s okay. He can’t help being an asshole, it runs in his side of the family.”

Will huffs with laughter.

“Is it weird?” he asks. “Like, ‘cos your mom got remarried? So now she’s called Hargrove too.”

“What, you mean, is it weird being the only Mayfield? No way,” she grins. “Now I have a name _all to myself_. I don’t have to share it with those wastoids.”

“Maybe you can make Lucas a Mayfield if you get lonely-- _ow_ , hey!”

“Shut up!” she laughs, punching him in the shoulder, “oh my god, you suck.”

Will doesn’t look away from the TV. “Not as much as you and him suck face.”

“You’d think someone they call ‘The Wise’ would _know when to shut up_ ,” she warns.

“Oh, sure, you got it.”

“Who knew tiny Will Byers was that snarky? Jeez, dude.”

Jonathan meanders back through the living room whilst the two are still trading barbs.

“--Asshole.”

“Valley Girl.”

“Hey, Max,” he interrupts cautiously, “uh, are you staying for food? I can throw together enough to go around, if you want...”

“Oh, no, thank you,” she says, taken aback. “My mom’s cooking tonight, so I have to be home before seven.”

“You want a ride?”

Max’s eyes widen.

“Um… That’d be nice. Thanks. What time do you want me to be ready?”

“Oh, whenever,” he says, waving dismissively, “just holler and I’ll grab my keys. Have fun, you two.”

Will may have a sharp eye, and an even sharper tongue when he feels like it, but the soft approach he harbours towards pain is admirable. Jonathan strides through the living room and returns to his room again; as Will watches him go, momentarily distracted, he takes the tactful stance of ignoring the burning, growing redness in Max’s eyes.

“Like I said,” she says, rubbing furiously at the bridge of her nose and recovering. “...Kinda cool.”


	2. Steve and Hopper+El

**December 2nd, 1984 - Saturday**

 

Steve comes out of the Fair Mart with a Coke and a frown, fully intending to sit out back in the cold to motivate him to start planning his latest paper, when he nearly has a heart attack.

_ “Shit!” _

“Jesus!” yells Hopper, at the same time as him. The Chief almost bites his cigarette filter off in surprise; he’s leaning against the back wall of the grocery store, a smoke in his mouth and his hat low over his eyes.

Steve cringes. “Sorry, Chief.”

“No problem, kid… Argh.”

Hopper exhales heavily. It’s hard to tell if he’s expelling cold breath in the winter air, or if it’s lingering smoke - Steve wouldn’t know the difference, actually, because he’s always hated the idea of smoking. (And, on one memorable occasion, realised he hated the  _ sensation  _ of smoking. One of the only nice things Carol had ever done for him, after making him try, was give up her nasty habit for an admittedly more irritating gum-chewing one.)

Steve shifts awkwardly.

“Whaddaya want, Harrington?”

“I, uh.. I study back here,” he admits.

“Here?” Hopper asks, raising an eyebrow and relighting behind a cupped palm. “Why not the library?”

Well…  _ Nancy  _ was why.

Something hurt must cross Steve’s expression, because the Chief shifts over. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says, wiggling the cigarette for emphasis, “Flo keeps riding my ass about quitting.”

There’s something quite funny about tiny, sixty-something Flo Mendez scolding Hopper over his declining pack-a-day numbers. “Thanks,” Steve chuckles, and takes a seat. He rests his back against the breaker box of the store, pulls out his Pee-Chee folder, and sticks his pencil in his mouth.

“What are you working on?”

“For school, or for college?”

“Try me,” Hopper says.

Steve sits up slightly. “For school? This is calculus, it’s not a big deal. For college… Well, I’m trying to be less of an asshole, if I’m ever gonna get in.”

He’s met with an ashy chuckle.

“I never did say sorry for last year,” Steve continues, and tucks his fringe behind his ear in embarrassment. “Fighting with By-- with Jonathan. And the grafitti.”

“I think you made up for it with what happened afterwards,” Hopper tells him reasonably.

They glance at each other warily; some teenage kid, still slightly cautious of authority, and some guy in his forties trying to find where his life began again. Except when Steve looks up towards the Chief, he sees a fight against the same monster.

“She wanted me to say thanks, if I saw you, y’know. For saving them.”

The psychic girl. Dustin had mentioned her once or twice, yeah.

“...She did?”

Hopper nods, flips the cigarette end to the floor, and stubs it out with the heel of his boot.

“Well,” says Steve, “uh… Tell her the same back from me.”

Another chuckle, but with less smoke. “Don’t stay out here too long, Harrington,” Hopper tells him. They look up at the sky; thick clouds are starting to form, off-white and heavy, and they promise snow. “It’s gonna get colder before it gets warmer.”

“Spurs me on though,” Steve says, as way of goodbye. He gestures to his algebra problems, and Hopper nods, and then the Chief’s off again. Steve can hear a radio crackling as he turns the corner into the grocery store parking lot.

He doesn’t hear a lot of talk about El - he knows it’s gonna be a big secret for a good few months to come.

So it’s pretty nice to be let in on something.

Steve grins into his math assignment, and chews on his pencil eraser. Yeah, it’s pretty damn nice.


	3. The Party and Nancy; The Party and Karen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple in this one. I'm now labelling the chapters for easier navigation.

**December 3rd, 1984 - Sunday**

 

“Where is she?!”

“She’s come to the last two, Lucas, calm down. She’s probably just late.”

“I knew I should’ve ridden by her house,” Lucas curses. “What if she couldn’t get a ride? What if she’s not allowed out?”

_ “Max is here!” _ Mike bellows down the stairs, and Lucas physically deflates with relief. Dustin pushes him good-naturedly onto the sofa to much protesting.

Max is slowly becoming a staple member of the Party at their Dungeons and Dragons meets. Whilst they don’t play one of Mike’s mini-campaigns every week, because god, that’d be a hell of a lot of work for him, they  _ do _ talk strategy and world expansion and what they wanna fight in future.

“Basically, you’ve got a lot to learn,” Dustin tells her, as she takes her seat between Will and Lucas. “Man… We  _ really _ have to get a circular table, Mike.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grumbles. “I’m gonna see if the Robinsons put one out at their next yard sale.”

“Think they’ll have any figures?” grins Will.

Mike huffs with laughter.

“Hey, we gotta find one for Max at some point.”

“And not one of the super-breasty ones,” she says firmly, “all those girl figurines you guys have are gross and don’t have any clothes.”

“Maybe we should ask Mr. Clark. He’d know where to get a good one, I bet.”

It’s nice to hear her brother and his friends getting along with a girl who probably can’t get them into inter-dimensional mischief, Nancy thinks, as she ventures into the basement; maybe one day, they’d even get along with a girl who  _ probably  _ wouldn’t be able to murder them. The Mayfield kid could certainly hold her ground.

“Guys?” she asks tentatively.

Five heads turn in creepy, creepy unison towards the stairs.

“Uh… Hey, Nancy,” says Mike. He’s tried to put a pencil behind his ear, but it looks like it’s mostly just gotten tangled in his hair.

“Mom was baking,” she starts awkwardly, “and I was helping, and I thought maybe you’d like some extra cookies out of it?”

It comes out as more of a question than a fact, but nevertheless, she isn’t rejected when she approaches the table with a plate of baked goods. There’s star shapes, Christmas trees, snowmen… 

“Thanks,” says Mike, surprised.

“No problem. Happy Christmas, you guys.”

The politics of their cookie-taking are quite interesting, actually, Nancy observes; Mike draws his hand back until Will’s got one. Lucas lets Max take one before him, even though she seems to be trying to go last. Dustin, of course, immediately reached for one of the ones with chocolate chips in, and is grinning his approval around a mouthful of crumbs. 

“These are  _ great _ , Nancy!”

There’s a chorus of agreement and various  _ yeah, thanks, Nancy! _ s.

“Your sister’s definitely cooled off more over this year,” Lucas notes. “Hey, Will, thank your brother for us, will ya?”

“Shut up,” Will laughs.

“Yeah, don’t piss off Jonathan,” Dustin says, “we want him to make music suggestions for the Snow Ball, don’t we? I want that German song--”

Lucas snorts. “You don’t even  _ know _ any German.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun,” Dustin replies, at the same time as Max says, “I do.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, “my Dad’s family is German, so he knew it and taught me. Then Mom met Neil, whisked us all off to Indiana, and  _ boom _ . German got swapped for Billy. No more language stuff for Max.”

“That  _ sucks _ .”

She grins. “I’ll pick it up again someday. We’ve got Nena ‘til then, right?”

“So don’t piss off Jonathan,” Dustin reiterates, pointing accusingly at Lucas. He mumbles the tune vaguely as he returns to his character sheet, the lyrics lost to gibberish mutterings.

“ _ Hielten sich für Captain Kirk, Es gab ein großes Feuerwerk-- _ ”

“Holy shit, you really do know German,” Mike says.

Max looks up - it seems like she’d only been trying to salvage Dustin’s mangled rendition of it. “Only some,” she says.

Will smiles hopefully at her. “Did you just say ‘Captain Kirk’?”

“You watch Star Trek?”

“Uh,  _ yeah _ , The Wrath of Khan is only one of the most emotional films  _ ever _ .”

“Oh my god,” whispers Lucas, and rests his head on the table.

After a productive afternoon of lore research, talking about tactics, and producing artwork - as well as teaching Max more about the gameplay itself - they decide to split before Dustin misses his mom’s dinner,  _ again _ .

“She’ll tear me apart if I’m late for a third time,” he whines, as they climb up the stairs.

“No she won’t,” Mike snorts, “your mom is the biggest softie over, she’s never gonna yell at you.”

“She might set the cat on me, though. Bye, Mrs. Wheeler--”

“Oh, mom!” Mike says, as they pass by the kitchen, “we’ve got something for you. It’s from all of us--”

“--yeah, Will drew the front, it’s really good--”

“ _ \--really _ good--”

“It’s okay,” Will protests.

Mrs. Wheeler is elbow deep in flour, and laughs as the Party invade her kitchen. “Calm down,” she squeaks, wiping off her hands, “ _ one _ at a time! What is this?” 

“A Christmas card!” says Dustin excitedly. Will timidly passes over a red envelope for her to unfold.

The front of the card is indeed a Will Byers original. It’s not in his usual crayon - goodness knows Karen’s picked enough of his artwork up off her floor over the years - but in delicate colouring pencil. In front of a big Christmas tree, she appears to be… Mrs. Claus? And some much smaller figures in front of her are Christmas elves. There’s some medieval garb she doesn’t understand there - the elf representing Max appears to have some kind of mace - but the sentiment is obvious.

_ To Mrs. Wheeler,  _ it says, with  _ (Mom) _ written next to it in Mike’s handwriting. Underneath, there’s a smattering of messages in various different colours and styles.

 

_ Thanks for letting us play Dungeons and Dragons in your basement all year again _

_ Thanks for giving us snacks! _

_ Thank you for letting us sleep over _

_ Happy Christmas! Merry Christmas! Have a great winter break!! _

_ Love from _

_Dustin_ _Lucas_ _Mike_ _  
__Will_ _Max_

_ Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx _

 

“Oh,” she says, smiling, “well, that’s very sweet of you boys. And Max. Oh, thank you so much, it’s going right on my mantlepiece--”

And she places it there, as the five of them run out into the front yard, with Will Byers’ design prominently facing out into the Wheeler’s living room.


	4. Steve and Jonathan

**December 4th, 1984 - Monday**

 

Steve hasn’t been back to the Byers’ home since whatever the hell it was that happened after Halloween. Now that he’s on their porch again - the scratch marks filled in, the broken panels replaced - he thinks that maybe he’d take a hundred demodogs, in defence of a thousand bratty kids, over what he’s about to do after a shitty Monday’s worth of school periods.

The front door cracks open.

“Steve? Steve Harrington?”

“That’s me,” he says, faux-confidently, “is Jonathan there, Mrs. Byers?”

“Oh, please,” she says, sidestepping to let him into the living room - _god_ , she’s short - “it’s Joyce, honey, I think we’ve been through enough without _formalities_.”

“Joyce,” he says, testing it.

She calls out for her son and gets a _‘just a minute, Mom!’_ in return, so Steve takes the opportunity to slip off his sneakers and glance around the living room. No transdimensional crayon map. Minimal Christmas lights. He notices there’s an absence of nail holes in the wall from where their makeshift alarm system was strung up last year, and wonders who filled them all in.

Joyce shrinks herself down into a dining chair, hovering over receipts and Christmas cards alike. For a second, it looks like she’s about to get back to work - maybe light up a cigarette from the discarded pack of Camels on the kitchen worktop - but instead, she looks up at him.

“You helped save my boys. Two years in a row.”

“Well... I think Jonathan saved me more than I saved him,” he grins.

Joyce narrows her eyes: “you also left a dead monster in my refrigerator.”

He quickly wipes the smile from his face. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, that was me. Sorry.”

“It was Dustin too. He’s a monster himself. I swear that kid’s gonna grow up to run a zoo,” she says, shaking her head fondly, and hell, Steve can relate to that.

He doesn’t get a chance to agree. There’s the sound of a door whooshing open, and soft, padding footsteps reverberating down the hallway carpet.

“What’s up, Mo-- _oh_ ,” says Jonathan. He stops in his tracks, right on the divide between the living room and kitchen.

“Hi,” says Steve.

“Hi,” says Jonathan, looking supremely awkward. He waves towards his room, and a deep, cringing frown settles between his eyes: “do you wanna-- I mean, shall we-- um--”

“Yeah, I’ll follow you,” Steve says, purely to rescue him from his own discomfort.

His socks collect static on the replaced hallway carpet, and the two lumber through towards Jonathan’s room. Both too big for the house; maybe too big for Hawkins, now, Steve thinks.

Jonathan closes the door behind him.

When Steve was last here, he’s wanted nothing more than to be back in this room. He’d looked left and right - guns in both directions - and put himself in front of Dustin and Max Mayfield, in front of Jonathan and his mom, with nothing but a spiked baseball bat and his own heaving breaths to retaliate with.

He’d really wanted to be back in here, where the monster hadn’t got him, last time.

And now he’s back, and it’s really weird.

“So,” says Jonathan uneasily, “I guess you’re here to talk about Nancy.”

“Well, I-- wait, what?” he says incredulously, “no, _no_.”

“...You’re not?”

“God, no,” Steve says. “She’s a big girl, Byers, she can go with whoever she wants. Besides, it’s not like you went behind my back, or stole her out from under me, or whatever. We fought, she chose you, it’s just a thing.”

“Right,” says Jonathan, slowly. “So… I’m not trying to be rude, but why else would you be here?”

Steve looks at him like he’s gone insane. “For… For you, man. Christmas. Y’know?”

When Jonathan actually raises his eyebrows in surprise, which is not an expression Steve is used to seeing on his face in the slightest, he sighs and pulls a box out of his backpack. “It’s a longstanding tradition in the winter period,” he says, being facetious, “to spread joy and give gifts with people you--”

“Alright, wise guy,” Jonathan snorts, and shuffles over so Steve can sit down too. “I know how Christmas works.”

“Then you’d better forget, quick. Open it now.”

“Now?!”

“I won’t tell Santa if you won’t,” Steve smirks. It earns him a grin; Jonathan tears open the paper like a little kid, and his eyes widen like saucers.

“It is the right one? You don’t already have it, right?”

“Steve,” he says seriously, “I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” Jonathan says, like it’s a full sentence. He tilts the box towards Steve, as though he hadn’t fully understood what it was he’d bought - _autofocus lens_ , it read. “These are crazy expensive!”

“Yeah, and no offense, dude, but I don’t pay rent, or bills, or have particularly expensive hobbies,” Steve points out. “All I spend money on all year is my car.”

Jonathan opens his mouth, and closes it again.

Steve shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal for me, but… I don’t know. I knew it would be for you, so. Couldn’t replace your camera and not get accessories, right?”

“I don’t have anything that even comes _close_ to give back to you,” Jonathan says. “Why are you doing this?”

“Oh, god, don’t worry about that.” He waves a hand dismissively, but then sobers up: “and I figure… Uh, I should probably get on the good side of someone who saves the world regularly.”

Jonathan huffs. “I don’t save the world, I just help.”

“Hey, me too, man.”

They share a grin. Jonathan abruptly rises and heads over to his hi-fi system, where his camera’s stationed, and starts dismantling the existing lens.

“How’s it run?”

“Noisy,” he grins, letting the metal and plastic click in his hands. “It’s clunky and awesome.”

“Cool,” Steve replies, twisting around so he can see what’s going on.

Jonathan fits the new lens, fiddles with the battery pack, and brings it up to his face. The LEDs on the camera’s body start flickering, lighting up in greens and oranges and reds. “Hey, check it out,” he says, letting the focus motor do its thing, “both hands!”

Steve barks out a laugh, and at that moment, Jonathan snaps a picture.

“I’ll give it to you after Friday sometime,” he smiles, and brings the camera back down.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He smooths out the denim of his jeans and goes to get up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

“Hey.”

Steve’s just reached for the handle of the door when his attention is grabbed again. When he turns to see, Jonathan tosses him a cassette tape.

“It’s not much, but it’s my latest mix,” he explains, “there’s some tracks on there you might like, so...”

“Aw, Jonathan, I can’t take your music stuff--”

“Please,” Jonathan says, a little bit desperately, and Steve gives in.

“You got it,” he says. “It better be good.”

“You doubting me?”

“I’m not _not_ doubting you,” Steve retorts, and they go back through the house, exchanging friendly jabs and blunt remarks. They walk past the kitchen - “again, so sorry about your refrigerator, Joyce,” - and after pulling on his sneakers, Jonathan opens the door for him.

Will’s on the doorstep. He looks rather startled.

“Oh, Will, I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”

“Yeah, Mrs. Sinclair just dropped me home,” he says, stepping aside so that Steve can exit the house. “Hey, Steve.”

“Hey, it’s Lil’ Byers. How’re you doing, man?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Will replies, looking amused, “Happy Christmas.”

“You too,” Steve grins, and turns back to the older brother. “See you at school, Jonathan.”

The Byers brothers murmur their goodbyes, and Steve heads back to his car. Whilst he’s rummaging in his pocket for his keys, he jams the cassette into the deck, and instantly, there’s the opening bars of a song by The Specials. God, Steve can appreciate that. When his dad would go on business trips, he would sometimes bring Steve back some vinyl or cassettes from the U.K. - Queen is _so_ hard to get ahold of in Hawkins, and actually, most Brit-pop and Brit-rock is rare in any music store.

He jams his key in the ignition, and grins. He’ll have to get Jonathan to teach him his music ways sometime.


	5. Mike and Max

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a little comment if you're enjoying or not enjoying this fragment style - I'm certainly enjoying writing it! Or maybe there's an unlikely pairing you want to see interact? Idek ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**December 5th, 1984 - Tuesday**

 

Mostly, when Max closes her locker, she comes face to face with Lucas or Dustin. It’s been hard to make friends with the other girls, and although she hasn’t tried that hard, it’s easy to see that they don’t share her interests whatsoever, which means that she’s feeling comfortable as a new member of the Party.

And speaking of… Well, it’s not Lucas standing at her locker when she shuts it.

“Hey,” says Mike.

“Hey, Wheeler. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he says, in that way that Max has learnt means, _‘let’s talk’_.

“Well, walk out with me, dude,” she says, tucking her skateboard under her arm, “I think we can come up with something.”

It’s hard to figure out where Max stands, when it comes to Mike Wheeler. He’s clearly loyal to his friends. Loyal enough, anyway, that he was unwilling to even consider tainting the empty space left by his psychic girlfriend by filling it with Max. Since the night they went into the tunnels with Steve Harrington, he’s been a lot more relaxed - through a combination of knowing El was okay, and (probably) her totally kickass driving skills, she’s managed to impress him somewhere down the line.

She understands why he was being such an ass before, and he understands that her intentions are good. So they stand, tentatively, on the precipice of friendship.

“How are you feeling about D-n-D?” he bursts out.

“Huh?”

“Dungeons and Dragons. That’s the shorthand for it. How are you feeling about it?” he asks.

It’s clearly important to him that she likes it - just like it’s important to Lucas that she likes it - so it’s a damn good job she’s actually been enjoying the backstory. “It’s got more plot than I expected,” she says, pretending to mull it over. “And there’s a lot more math than I’d like, but...”

“But…?”

“I’m sure I can get over it,” she finishes, and Mike breathes a sigh of relief.

“ _Awesome_. I mean… Cool, whatever.”

“All I’m stuck on now is what kind of character to make,” she tells him, and tries not to laugh at how _not_ cool he’s playing it. She pushes open the school doors. They both squint against the setting sun, but it’s not as harsh in December as in Fall. “...I don’t have all those dice to roll for the numbers and stuff. And I don’t know that much about the class and race parts?”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Mike says. “I’ll help you with that.”

“...You will?”

“Yeah,” he says earnestly, “with all the saving throws and the ability scores? I’m the Dungeon Master, so I’m most qualified to help you make a character.”

“Is that so?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh. We can figure out how to make your character the fastest character, too.”

She stops.

It’s a dangerous move - Billy’s smoking by his car and hasn’t seen her yet, but even with her intimidation tactics, he could easily leave without her. Nevertheless, she stops outside the school steps, and scrutinises Mike’s expression.

“Won’t that screw up the party dynamics?” she asks. “I don’t want my character to stick out and be useless.”

He brightens: “we work together, as a team. We’re a _team_. Everyone brings something to the table - guess you’re gonna be the fast one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course. I think we can make a Zoomer out of a Thief with souped-up dexterity,” Mike says, smiling the lopsided smile he projected when he was actually a little nervous in a social situation. “Your alignment might be a little harder, but we’ll figure it out. I’ll help you.”

Max doesn’t like accepting help. In this situation, however, she thinks it might be wise to listen to someone with the title ‘Dungeon Master’.

“Thanks,” she smiles, offering him a hand. Mike slaps it accordingly. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. He’s obviously relieved. Thinking about it, one of Mike’s most used words is ‘yeah’, and that probably says something about him, but Max can’t work it out.

It feels positive, though. It feels like a good thing.

“The hell are you smiling about?” says Billy, when she climbs into the passenger seat.

Max is used to denying everything.

She looks him in the eye, and says, “my friends are gonna help me play a tabletop game with them. It’s gonna be great.”

And if she feels a smug satisfaction when his lip curls, and when his hand leaps to his neck subconsciously, then Max keeps it to herself. There’s no point bating trouble when you’re in too enclosed a space to make a quick getaway, after all - Zoomer or not.


	6. Joyce and Bob

**December 6th, 1984 - Wednesday**

 

After Will’s been instructed to go to bed, and Jonathan’s retreated to listen to goodness-knows-what through his headphones, Joyce sits in the living room and wonders what they’re going to do on movie night.

It’s been hard, without Bob. There’d been a flicker of _Maine_ , and some sort of hope, some kind of screwed up idea that they could function happily and normally - she’d clung to it like it was keeping her alive. And maybe it had been, for a little while. Joyce had needed something tangible to keep close by, after the trauma of _absence, absence, absence, where’s Will?!--_

But then… nothing.

Gone

‘Gone’ with a capital ‘G’.

Losing Bob was not as hard as losing Will, but in some ways, it was much, much worse. Will’s absence had been temporary. If someone’s missing, you can deny it. You can sit there all damn day and say, _‘no, he’s not Gone, he’s just gone, and he’s going to come back’ ._  

Death’s different. All of that hopefulness is nonexistent. She’d seen him fall. She was a witness to his absence. Joyce Byers looked upon the evil from another dimension, tearing apart her gentle, generous love, and weaponised it - _not my son, you bastard. Get the hell out of my son._

She stops slouching at the kitchen table, pulling herself to her feet, and lights a cigarette. There’s a bottle of wine in the top cupboard. It’s a nice one. Red. A Rioja. It’s behind the recipes she’d copied out at the library for a perfect, home-cooked dinner.

The movements from there are almost unconscious; she grabs the footstool, and stands on it, and draws it out of its hiding place. The glass makes a grating sound against the cheap wood, but it’s quiet enough that it won’t disturb her boys.

Should she open it?

No. God, no. She can’t bear to.

With ash fluttering down onto the linoleum, Joyce pads over to the couch and collapses. These moments of grief are all she has left, these days. Everything else during the day is too hectic for her to deal with it, which is both practical and horrendously soul-crushing.

She clutches the Rioja to her chest, and chokes. It’s as quiet as she can muster, but she’s folded almost in half with the loss.

Bob is Gone. With a capital ‘G’. And the feeling is sticking to her skin like molasses.


	7. Steve and Dustin

**December 7th, 1984 - Thursday**

 

“Son of a bitch,” mutters Dustin. This is mostly because it’s his go-to swear, now that his lisp has lessened significantly, but it’s also because he has no idea how the high school works. _Damn_ it, Henderson, how hard could it be to figure out which door was the main door? Teenagers seemed to be spewing out from all over the place.

A snowflake settles on the tip of his nose. He splutters and fumbles the package he’s holding in the crook of his elbow, trying to balance his bike in his other hand and, at the same time, keep an eye on the students pouring out of the high school.

“Dustin?”

“Oh, thank god,” Dustin swears, “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

“That would be pretty hard,” Steve says drily. “You… have a presence.”

Dustin looks up hopefully. “…And presents?”

“Eh, it’s singular. Come on, it’s in my car.”

Dustin wheels his bike over as Steve leads the way towards his flashy BMW. He’s always thought that a ride like that would make you happy wherever you went; it’s a pretty good feeling to be able to arrive in style.

Instead of opening a door directly to the backseat, Steve hops in front, leans over the headrest to retrieve a lumpy parcel, and sits sideways in the driver’s seat so his legs stick out of the car.

“Happy friggin’ Christmas, kid.”

“Same to you,” Dustin says, and they dutifully swap parcels.

“Yours first?”

Dustin doesn’t need to be told twice. He tears into the paper, and immediately drops part of it onto the wet tarmac of the parking lot.

“Hey, nougat! I love this stuff!”

“I know,” says Steve, resting an elbow on his steering wheel. “Eh, I guess it is plural after all...”

Dustin pulls the rest of the paper to reveal a scarlet baseball cap. It’s a little smaller than his trucker’s cap, with a less broad brim, but it looks amazing.

“Is this baseball?”

“Yeah, Indiana Hoosiers,” Steve says, “they’re not one of the big teams, but they’re closer by than the Pirates games my Dad takes me to sometimes. And they’re having a pretty good time lately.”

Dustin immediately swaps it over, cramming it over his curls. “How’s it sit?”

Steve grins, in that fraternal way he grins that crinkles up his eyes. “Pretty darn good,” he says.

“Thanks, Steve, that’s super cool,” Dustin says, beaming back. He waves a finger at the parcel in Steve’s lap: “okay, okay, it’s your turn now!”

The lumpy gift is soft and squishy to the touch. Whatever’s in there isn’t rigid in the slightest, so he peels back the Christmas tree-patterned paper and reveals a sweater.

“I thought it was fun, but professional-like,” Dustin explains. “It just about fits in with your yuppie-lookin’ prep style--”

“Hey! Watch it.”

“Do you like it?” Dustin grins. Steve’s little outbursts didn’t bother him that much. Thinking about it, outbursts rarely bothered him anymore. Must be a side effect of fighting monsters, he guesses.

Steve unfolds it, letting the arms hang limply as he examines the front. It’s cream coloured - not too fuzzy, either, which is a surprise. It actually looks... fairly neat. There’s a criss-crossing of light blue snowflakes circling around the chest.

“Fun, but professional-like,” he nods, understanding. “Dustin, this is _great_. Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” Dustin says. He’s beaming like Steve just told him he’d been nominated for Prom King. “Merry Christmas, and all.”

Steve pulls off his jacket and pulls on the sweater immediately. Man, Dustin did well on this one - he’s pretty proud of himself, because it looks like a really good fit.

“Merry Christmas right back. Stay cool, Henderson.”

Dustin shoot finger-guns at him. “Stay cosy, Harrington.”

“Hah, yeah, I will. Hey, you want a ride?” Steve asks. He smooths down his hair where it’s gone static.

Dustin smacks his handlebars lightly. “Got my bike.”

“Yeah? Shove it in the backseat.”

“But… Your seats are leather, and my bike’s a grimy piece of crap.”

“There’s almost next Christmas,” Steve shrugs, getting up to toss it in back. “I’m not letting you ride home alone in the snow, man. Get in the goddamn car.”

“You got it,” says Dustin. It’s the smart thing to do, and he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth - especially when Steve’s car has heating. Steve clambers back in and turns his key in the ignition, slapping at the tape deck randomly when it starts automatically playing in the middle of a track.

“Nougat?”

“Nah, it’s yours,” Steve says. “You’re near Cornwallis, right?”

“Yep. Thanks, buddy. Don’t crash, now.”

Steve snorts derisively, and pulls out of the school parking lot. The bike rattles against the back seats; he ignores it.


	8. Jonathan and Nancy; Nancy and Steve

**December 8th, 1984 - Friday**

 

Jonathan begins his school day by tucking a note into Nancy’s locker:

_lunchtime, darkroom. X_

He’s antsy all day afterwards. He can’t even keep still in his chair in physics class, and that’s usually when he’s closest to drifting off.

When class lets out, he practically power walks to the damn darkroom as fast as the packed corridors will allow for - meaning he and Nancy collide outside. Apparently, she’d been just as anxious and he had.

“Oh!” she gasps, and jumps backwards.

“God-- _sorry_ ,” he bites out, trying not to hit her in the face as he flails his hands around and checks for damage. “I just--”

“Yeah,” Nancy says breathlessly, laughing through the awkwardness, “I just--”

“--after you?”

“Okay.”

They finally squeeze through the darkroom door, and because it’s a Friday, most of the art students who use it are absent. Art homework is due on a Wednesday, meaning that peak times are on Tuesday - and this means that on Friday, he can sit in the corner with Nancy in the red lights and eat his lunch, even though they’re _really_ not supposed to. She thinks the atmosphere is romantic. He thinks it’s calming. It all works out in the end.

“So what have you been working on?” Nancy asks.

“Oh, y’know… Just some practice pieces,” he says, trying to suppress a smile, “I have a new lens to play with. It’s been an adventure.”

She smiles up at him, her face flushed out in flat scarlet light: “well, we both know a little adventure never hurt anyone, right?”

Jonathan snorts.

He washes his hands and starts preparing the developer trays. It’s odd to have someone watching him, like Nancy’s taken to doing in the last couple of weeks, but at the same time, he can appreciate the symbolism of having the tables turned on him. The observer, now the observed. It was kind of poetic.

“I got you something,” Nancy says, around a sandwich with the crusts trimmed off.

“What?”

“For Christmas, genius. I got you something. I don’t know if you want it now, or...”

Jonathan drops a piece of photo paper onto the meniscus of the developer, and grabs his satchel. “That’s so weird,” he smirks, “I’ve got something for you, too. Just finished it yesterday. Do you… wanna trade?”

“It would be my pleasure, Jonathan Byers,” she says, smiling so widely and brightly that for a moment, Jonathan’s terrified she’s going to damage all the equipment in the darkroom. “Here, take yours first--”

She sets aside her lunch bag, and slides a gift out from her bag which, by all accounts, should _not_ have been able to fit in there.

It’s an enormous and suspiciously square-shaped present. And it’s _heavy_ for how thin it is.

“I think I know what sort of gift this might be,” he grins, perching on the lab stool next to her, and he peels off the paper.

Two vinyl pressings. A single - Phil Collins, _Against All Odds_. He hasn’t seen that film, but Phil Collins is always a winner. There’s an album nestled behind it.

“Bowie?”

“He covered ‘God Only Knows’,” she explains, “and I know you like Bowie, and this was his latest one, so I _really_ hope you haven’t got it yet, but--”

“It’s amazing,” he breathes, and tilts the stained glass pattern on the cover art, until the glow from the red bulbs leaves only the black outlines. “Nancy, thanks so much. I really like that Phil Collins track - and I _love_ Bowie.”

She breathes a sigh of relief.

“Now I _really_ hope you like yours,” he laughs nervously.

She shoots him a reassuring look. “Definitely.”

The present has been burning a hole in his satchel all day. It’s heavier than the records, but much, much more compact. Nancy lets out a little _ooh!_ noise when he hands it over, and tests the weight in her hands gently.

“I like it already,” she teases.

“Come _on_ \--”

Nancy unwraps gifts like his little brother does - it’s one swift motion, and suddenly the paper’s gone, like a Christmas magic trick.

“Oh, Jonathan, this is _beautiful!_ When did you even develop this? And the _frame_ \--”

She runs her finger over the glass pane. Within, there’s a black and white photograph that Jonathan had taken only last week, with the autofocus lens whirring away and the timer clicking down the seconds. At the very last moment, he’d looked at her with the most miserable, serious expression he could muster up - and they’d both burst out laughing as the flash had gone off.

He’d developed it early one morning before roll call, so he could keep it hidden, and set it in a second-hand frame.

“It’s a little tarnished,” he says, “but it’s silver plated, and I figured it gave it some character. Will had me take him to the antique store, and it called out to me when I saw it, I guess? It felt like a frame for you.”

Nancy traces the curled engravings with her index finger. “...Why?”

(He loves it when she comes out with questions like that.)

“Because,” he says, letting his eyes skim over the frilled edges, “it’s classy. And it’s tougher than it looks. And it has substance… And it clearly has a story or two to tell.”

Nancy glances up at him through her eyelashes: “you are _so_ weird.”

“Hey, you asked.”

“I did,” she says, and looks very, very pleased. “Thank you, Jonathan.”

She tilts her head, and starts to lean in; and at the worst possible moment, the handle of the door to the darkroom begins to twist open.

Nancy jumps back and pulls her lunch back into her lap inconspicuously. She’s biting her lip to keep a smile at bay. Jonathan hides his own by returning to his develop tray, only to realise that his picture is starting to bleed through into glorious black and white.

Not bad, for his first attempt with the autofocus lens. He drops it into the next tray.

Nicole barges in, her art supplies in hand, and grabs some of her equipment from the counter: “oh, Nancy,” she says, surprised, “you’ve got a Christmas present over by the enlarger, or something. It’s been in my way all week. Can you move it?”

Nancy raises her eyebrows.

“Uh… sure?”

“Thanks,” says Nicole, not sounding very thankful at all, and breezes out again.

Jonathan shakes his hands lightly to dispel the droplets from his fingertips. “What was that all about?”

“I don’t know,” she says from behind him, “but it’s got my name on it.”

He can practically hear the frown in her tone, and it makes him smile all over again. “Something good, I hope?”

“Yeah,” she replies, and the trepidation he can detect makes him peer over his shoulder. “...It’s from Steve.”

In her hands, she holds crumpled wrapping paper in the right, and the _Footloose_ soundtrack in the left.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing,” Nancy says. “There’s no note. I just know it’s him. The handwriting’s his. And he knows I liked this film...”

He needs to change the subject, and fast, if he wants the mood to stay high: “I’m not gonna have to compete with Kevin Bacon, am I?” Jonathan asks, faux-seriously. “Because I don’t know if I can do that. He had some _hardcore_ moves.”

Nancy does manage to kiss him this time. She holds the side of his face with a solitary hand, cold against his cheek, and he keeps his wet ones hovering over the developer tray.

When she leaves, to hopefully track down Steve and say thank you in person, he pins the photo of him up to dry.

God, what a mess. Jonathan hopes they can smooth it over somehow, eventually.


	9. El and Nancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midnight update because it's my birthday today! Expect the chapter for the 10th late in the day; I will most certainly be recovering on Sunday. ♥

**December 9th, 1984 - Saturday**

 

Sometimes, when she dreams, she slips.

Eleven is the most common one - she finds herself between stark white tiles, and reinforced doorways, and the piercing shrieks of monotonous humming sting her eardrums until she wakes up. Smothered in the bed sheets. Sweating, over the colour that floods her vision when she cracks open her eyes.

Jim is usually waiting for her with warm cocoa in the sitting room, on those nights.

Other times, she wanders the world as Jane Ives. The taken child. The girl she never got to be. She often wonders if Terry could have brought her up, if nothing had ever happened to them like it had; sometimes she even wonders if she _was_ Jane Ives at all. There are, of course, at least nine other candidates who could fill those shoes.

El prefers to be El. Jane Hopper is her latest name, but it’s just a formality - or, at least, she hopes it’s a formality, because she’d rather be El. Eleven is an experiment, and Jane is a lost girl who doesn’t exist, and El… Well, she’s just _El_.

She doesn’t mind _Hopper_. Actually, she loves Hopper as a last name. It’s a link to something tangible ( _family_ ) and some _one_ tangible (Jim). The idea and the man are what she would like to be defined by, these days--

She just wishes she could dream of being El a little more often.

Mike gave her that name, which is something she finds impossible to overlook. He took the only part of her she’d ever known, and looked at it from a fresh perspective. It was like she’d been named after friendship, and love, and loyalty, and honesty, before she’d even had a chance to discover them properly; not just a number anymore, but a whole person, waiting to be given choices, and ready to be shaped into a new form. For the _better_.

But El would never slip into Mike’s dreams. She knows, even when she’s sleeping, that it would be too much for her. She might do more harm than good - and it would be even worse if she didn’t get the chance to explain herself. If she ever let Mike think he was going out of hi mind, she’d never forgive herself.

On the rare occasion she does slip into a dream that doesn’t belong to her, though, she can usually manage it.

Who is she?

Not El.

She’s teenage worry and fitful, poorly suppressed ferocity.

(It’s very similar, but it’s not quite her own head.)

The void of her unconscious mind stretches out endlessly, and then contracts in waves of smoke. Gusts of wind, neither warm nor cold, whip up her hair; and then, in the dark, she sees two figures.

They’re attached to each other, and fumbling around in a shallow layer of snow. One’s almost on her back, with the second hovering over her - hands pushing down on the girl’s shoulders, then moving to her neck and squeezing.

El moves closer, with purpose, to get a better look at the attacker, and the halo of red hair sends her reeling with aftershocks.

“ _You killed me,_ ” Barb says. Her voice is high and raspy. Her clothes are stained with black spots.

From the floor, Nancy wheezes, and watches in horror as Barb’s face starts to droop. It’s like her friend isn’t quite human anymore, even in death.

“I’m… sorry,” Nancy breathes out, turning pink and suffocating through tears.

El takes one last step closer, and presses a shaking hand to the fabric of Barb’s jacket.

Instantly, the girl dissipates into vapor and dust. Nancy’s eyes are squeezed shut, even as she takes great, heaving lungfuls of air in, and to El’s despair, starts to silently cry.

So she does the only thing she knows how to do.

 _(“You saved me. Do you understand? You_ _saved_ _me.”)_

El kneels down, and bundles Nancy up in her arms. She lets her cry into the shoulder of her pyjama shirt, and smooths down the girl’s hair, and rubs her hand soothingly into her upper back.

And the loneliness begins to fade away. The unnatural snow surrounding them melts, blooming into summer; the white gives way to green grass and tiny flowers. The darkness lifts, gradually rising into a gradient of yellows and greens and muted grays. It looks like what El sees in her mind’s eye when Jim reads to her, on evenings when she doesn’t dream, and only rests.

Nancy doesn’t open her eyes, but that’s okay, because El’s starting to lose her grip on unconsciousness anyway.

She tries to remember how best to begin to wipe away pain. It’s a new thing to her - the offering of comfort - but misery can turn into something bittersweet, and loneliness can become tranquil solitude, and El hopes that this is what she leaves Nancy with tonight.

 _Sister_ , she thinks, and gently holds on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing for El is a lot of fun, because I get to play with narration a _lot_. Let me know what you thought!


	10. Steve and The Party

**December 10th, 1984 - Sunday**

 

“Hey, you’re early,” Mike says from her perch on the basement banisters. “What gives?”

Dustin looks like he’s about to explode.

“ _Dustin_. Who even let you in? What’s going on?”

“Your sister,” Dustin bursts out, “when I got here, Steve was just leaving, and he looked shifty in that way he does when he’s doing something nice but he’s trying to be macho and not mention it to anyone? And then I came down and there were presents here addressed to ‘The Party’ and that’s _us_ , Mike, that’s us!”

Mike discreetly rubs his temples. “Woah, woah, man, slow down. My sister let in you and _Steve_? I thought they broke up?”

“I don’t know, they seemed like they were talking. It was cautious, but friendly,” Dustin shrugs. “When are the others gonna get here?”

“Do I look like I can predict the future?!”

“I’m excited, okay? Steve gives good gifts.”

“Who’s got a gift?” asks Max, from the first floor.

Mike whirls around. “Hey, Nancy? Could you let me know when my friends get here, instead of letting me just _discover_ them?”

“It’s more fun this way!” calls her disembodied voice from above. (Dustin briefly looks up at the ceiling, as if he’s listening out for God.)

Max and Lucas thunder down the stairs together, and immediately lock eyes with the present pile on the table.

“Who’s that for?”

“All of us,” Dustin replies instantly.

Max squints at him dubiously; he gives a succession of rapid nods. The whole exchange is silent, but she seems to be validated by it.

“-- _Hey_ , Mike!”

Mike falls off the last step, startled; Will’s crept down the stairs whilst they were all briefly distracted, and bellowed a hello directly into Mike’s ear.

“Byers!” he laughs, “you’re such an _asshole!”_

“Takes one to know one,” Will grins. “Oh, presents! They’re all for me, right?”

“In your dreams,” says Dustin. “Get over here, man, we wanna divide them up and open them.”

After gathering around the table, taking their seats as per the normal routine, they manage to each select something to open. The card addressed to ‘The Party’ goes to Dustin, who seems the natural vessel for Steve’s message to them; Max, after shyly reaching for the first of the heavy oblong-shaped parcels, has Mike ask to swap with her, and ends up with the biggest box. Lucas takes the second heavy parcel, and Will grins as he shakes a rattle-y sounding slim package.

“Okay, you all open them up on three,” Dustin instructs, “and _then_ I’ll read the card, so that we don’t spoil it first. Does that sound good?”

There’s enthusiastic, impatient agreement from all four of them:

“--alright, then, one, two, _three!”_

It all happens in a flurry of paper. Mike and Lucas are a bit more careful with their unwrapping technique, in that they only rip off the ends to minimise the spray of paper shreds. Max grabs a random loose bubble and pulls until the top of the box is uncovered. Will produces a metal case with his usual single-tear flourish.

“Hey, this is so cool!” he grins, “check it out! Mini acrylic paint pots!”

Mike and Lucas look at each other with similar degrees of confusion. “Clay?” they say simultaneously. Both hold up a pound block of FIMO.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” says Max.

The four boys crowd in to examine the front of the box she’s holding.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“No _way_.”

Emblazoned on the front of the box are the words:

 **Official** **Advanced** **  
** **Dungeons &Dragons**

**12 Metal Miniatures**

**Monks, Bards & Thieves**

Mike stares at Dustin, outraged: “open the card-- _open the card!”_ he says urgently, and starts off a chain reaction of demanding.

Dustin practically rips it in half trying to get inside. Finally unfolding it, he reads aloud:

_“Hey, ‘The Party’. Figured your nerd game has saved our asses so many times that I might as well encourage it. There’s some molding clay and paint in there too, so that if you need any custom figurines for new adventures, you can make them how you want. Merry Christmas - Steve Harrington.”_

Lucas is resting his head in his hands. “This is one of the best days of my life,” he murmurs.

“It’s so weird he signed his name like that,” Dustin points out, “we know who he is already. Hey, Will? If you squeeze the paint pots like that, they’re gonna explode.”

Will doesn’t relinquish his death grip.

“Can you turn over the box, Max?” says Mike, finally remembering to close his mouth.

“Yeah, sure,” she smiles.

She does so: _assassin; bard with sword; gnome thief; monk with torch._

“Oh my god,” says Mike.

“What?”

“Look,” he says, pointing insistently, _“female thief.”_

Max’s eyes widen. “She’s... got clothes on.”

“She’s got a huge-ass dagger, too!”

“We gotta paint her hair red,” Will says faintly.

“Max, are you crying?”

“No! Shut up!” she says furiously, blinking hard, “I’m crying as much as Mike’s crying!”

_“Hey!”_

“Oh, Michael, stop shouting,” says Karen Wheeler from the top of the stairs, descending cautiously with a tray of hot cocoa. “What’s all this?”

“Steve got it for us,” Will grins.

“Steve Harrington?” she asks, surprised. She starts to set mugs down in front of everyone, receiving individual _thank you_ s in return: “I didn’t think he and Nancy were together anymore.”

“Oh, they’re not, but they’re still friends,” Mike says, “or… I think they are. No, he’s our friend now, anyway.”

“He likes me the best.”

“In your dreams, Dustin,” Max snorts.

“Well, that’s nice,” Karen smiles, “he seems like more of a responsible young man every day. Maybe I should ask him to babysit Holly at some point.”

The Party share a look.

“I think she’d be in safe hands, Mrs. Wheeler,” Max says sagely.

Mike’s mother is clearly entertained by this. “Oh, that’s good to hear, Maxine. Have a good time playing, kids--”

“--Thanks for the cocoa!”

“Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Wheeler--”

“You’re welcome!”

And once she leaves, they instantly crowd around the box again.

“What figures do we need?” Will asks. He’s still spinning the plastic chainlink of acrylic paints between his slender fingers, but it doesn’t seem like he’s realised he’s doing it. “We should write a list of miniatures we could add.”

Mike frowns with concentration. “Maybe we should make some demodog figures. For a campaign.”

“I still think we should’ve called them ‘semigorgons’.”

“Man, shut _up_ , Lucas.”

“We should have!” he protests.

“Max’s figure first,” Will interjects, to change the subject. “Budge over, Dustin, Max needs to move up so she can tell me the colours she wants. Unless--” his expression sobers comically, like he’s just realising something tremendously important, “--unless you wanna paint it?”

“No, no. That’s your job, Will,” she grins, and shuffles her chair closer, “you’re the artist guy.”

“You can have a go, though, if you want.”

“Nah,” she smiles. “I’m a Thief. I can just pretend I did your work and take the credit for it, right?”

“Chaotic Neutral,” Dustin mutters, like it’s an insult, and the five of them fail to hold back their laughter, as they get to work unpacking Steve’s gifts.


	11. Hopper and Joyce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I have a research project due at the mo. Catch up will be achieved in the next week or so!

**December 11th, 1984 - Monday**

 

“So no more episodes?”

“No more episodes,” Joyce confirms. “A few nightmares, and a newfound problem with the bathtub… But no more episodes.”

“Yeah, I get the bathtub thing,” Hopper says wearily.

He flicks the end of his cigarette and watches little specks fall into the ashtray. Yeah, he’s _trying_ to quit, but he knows he’s gotta let the habit taper off - he can’t just cut smoking out of his life like that. And he’s probably always going to have a soft spot for sharing nicotine-stained time with Joyce Byers.

“She’s getting better with the water, though?”

“Uh-huh,” he says, “and the cold… And the colour white.”

Joyce huffs a little laugh into the last of her cigarette, and stubs it out with a small puff. “How’s Christmas going to go? Is she excited?”

“I don’t think she gets the full scope of it yet,” Hopper grins. “She only knows what it is from Christmas specials on TV… Maybe next year she’ll understand.”

“Well,” Joyce says, pulling herself up from the table and opening one of her kitchen cupboards, “I’ve got a little something to make the holidays easier for you.”

She pulls down a square present that looks heavier than its size might suggest, and Hopper pushes his chair back from the table, as if to rise. She pushes his shoulders back down into the seat as she breezes by, and places the gift on the table in front of him.

“Uh-uh, Hop, you’re gonna take this--”

“Joyce, you shouldn’t have.”

“Of course I should’ve,” she scoffs, returning to her chair, “now come on, I wanna see if it’s useful or not.”

Hopper always feels a little bit proud when Joyce brings out her maternal side; it happens often, but he knew her a long time ago before she was a mom, and it’s always nice to remember that she stayed as caring as she’d been back then.

He tears the paper with a satisfying _rip_ noise, and uncovers a book.

“‘One Hundred and One Easy Homecooked Meals’?” he asks through a smile.

“Yeah, I thought it would be good for you and her. You’re going on lately about your healthy streak, so I thought you might find it fun to try some new food, instead of that--” she waves her hands, lost, “--microwave oven crap you shovel into your face. That’s okay now and then, Hop, but you can’t eat it every night.”

“Hey, it’s got peas.”

“So’s this one,” she laughs, flipping to a random page. (Ooh, pictures.) “And even if you can’t do it… Maybe El can. God knows I’m the worst cook in the world, but Jonathan picked up something I didn’t, and now he’s commandeering the whole goddamn Christmas goose.”

Hop grins--

“Thanks, Joyce. I really appreciate it. I hope you know you’ve condemned me to a good few months of ingredients hunting, though...”

\--and pulls a card out of his jacket pocket.

Joyce’s smile falters, instantly wary. “What’s this?”

“A card. Won’t bite, I promise.”

She lifts the lip of the envelope, and admires the front before unfolding it - it’s one of those glittery ones, with the garish birds on the front.

And then she lifts her hand to her face.

“Oh, Hopper, _no_.”

“Um,” he says, thinking, “Joyce, _yes_ , it’s Christmas and I want you to have something nice. And it’s something I can do.”

“I got you a _cookbook_ ,” she says, quietly but slightly shrill, “how the hell is that even comparable to _reshingling my roof_?”

He can’t help but laugh at her oncoming fit of conniptions; it’s time to nip it in the bud before it goes full-blown. “Because,” he says gently, “Carson down at the hardware store owes me a favour. I hauled in one of his serial shoplifters, so he promised me a DIY IOU.”

“That’s a lotta letters.”

“Yup,” he grins. “So we’ll wait til spring, when it’s a little warmer - don’t want you getting cold whilst pieces of your roof are torn out, right? And he’ll fix all that bowing by the guttering for you.”

“ _Hop_ ,” she says. Pleadingly. Tearfully.

He stares her down.

She bites her lip, and gives up.

“...Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says, and brings her in for an awkward, one-armed hug. “Merry Christmas.”


	12. Secret Santa Prep, or, Will Byers Has A Nice Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breather chapter.
> 
> Please forgive any inaccuracies with my headcanon for Joyce's holiday celebrations; I only know of the casual/low-key/cultural celebration of Hanukkah, so if this is disrespectful at all then please don't hesitate to let me know.

**December 12th, 1984 - Tuesday**

 

“You ready to go, Will?”

“Yeah,” he says, jingling coins in his pocket, “I’m just gonna let my mom know we’re leaving, just a second-- sorry--”

“It’s okay!” Max says, grinning in the doorway.

“I’m just heading out, Mom!” Will calls into the hallway.

Joyce immediately appears, like magic. “Have fun, sweetie!” she says, approaching quickly and fussing over his hair, “make sure you’re bundled up warm enough. Oh, and Jonathan will be over to pick you up at six-thirty, okay?”

“I know, Mom. Thanks.”

From the porch, Max waves with the hand that’s not holding her skateboard. “Hi, Mrs. Byers.”

“Oh, hey, Max!” Joyce smiles, “gosh, I don’t know how you stay on that thing… Think maybe you’ll get a bike for Christmas?”

“Maybe not,” she winces, “I’d rather just have a new board. This one’s a little busted up, now.”

“Aw, well, I hope it all works out. Oh, Will?”

“Yeah?”

Joyce hands him a dollar bill.

“Thanks, Mom!”

“Look after each other, kids,” she calls, as Will wheels his bike out onto the drive, “I’ll see you tonight, honey!”

“Your mom is so nice,” Max says. The two leisurely start to slide down the track towards the main road; the Party had agreed to meet at the Palace Arcade after school, December was making it a lot harder to convince their families to let them roam around in the early darkness.

“Yeah, she’s great,” says Will. “I wish she’d give me a little more space, sometimes, though. I get where she’s coming from, but… I can’t do _anything_ without being supervised, now.”

He rings the bell on his bike thoughtfully, like he’s trying to fill the silence.

Max pushes off the asphalt again to regain momentum: “I can see how that’d be a pain in the ass.”

“You got that right. Hey, uh… Did you check that thing? For Mike and me?”

She takes a risky glance at him as they speed up towards the crossroads. Her red hair whips up in the wind, and she gives him a huge grin. “Yeah, I did. It’s a solid plan, Will, it’s gonna be _awesome_.”

Will’s small huff of satisfaction, and a very restrained, “cool,” is all they exchange until they turn the corner onto the main road. At the end of the street, the huge ‘ARCADE’ sign beckoned them - on the opposite side, Will could see Dustin cycling furiously towards it, too.

“Hey!” Max yells, “wait up!”

Dustin beats them to the bike racks. “No way, guys, it’s _freezing_ out. Plus I gotta pee. See you inside!”

“Asshole,” says Max, when they finally roll up to the decking outside the arcade. It sounds like it’s good-natured.

Before they’re even through the doors, Max and Lucas are waving at them frantically.

“Hey, you guys!”

“Is it alright if I go and play Dig Dug with Lucas?” Max murmurs at him, before they join the group. “He always gets this dumb look on his face when I get past five hundred thousand.”

Will nods - partly because, aw, that’s cute, and mostly because he needs to chat to Mike about their Secret Santa plans.

“Let’s talk business, Wheeler.”

“Uh, what?” interjects Lucas. “What’s this? I hope you’re not planning on toppling my Dragon’s Lair score--”

“No, it’s not that,” Mike snorts. “You can keep Princess Daphne. Will and I are talking outfits for the Snow Ball.”

Lucas curls his lip, but before he can remind them that he’s the most fashionable one of them all, Max gives him a light punch to his arm.

“I’m gonna win Princess Daphne off you, _for fun_ , unless you come play Dig Dug. C’mon, Stalker.”

She practically drags him away by the sleeve of his coat; he looks stunned, but not exactly like he minds a great deal.

Will and Mike share a look… And promptly burst into laughter.

“Oh, man, he’s got it _bad_.”

“Yeah,” Mike grins, and they wander around to the Asteroids machine. “She find out for us?”

“Yeah, he hasn’t got one,” Will says, beaming. “So we can move onto phase three - that’s Dustin’s part. I’ll get Jonathan to swing by tonight so we can pick it up?”

“Pick what up?” says Dustin, from over their shoulder.

“Shhhh!”

“Lucas’s present, from the Party,” Mike hisses, and slides a quarter into the machine. “Will’s gonna give it to you tomorrow.”

“Sure am.” He bounces on his toes, watching as Mike begins to systematically take apart asteroids with precise shooting. Dustin nods with understanding, and adjusts his cap - it’s not his usual one, Will notices, but some bright red one with a sports logo on. “Hey,” he asks, “where’d you get that? Is it new?”

“The cap? That was Steve,” Dustin says proudly.

“ _Cool_.”

“I hope you’re not gonna be as much of a loudmouth when it comes to the gift exchange,” Mike grumbles, but that’s probably because he just got distracted by looking at his friend’s new fashion accessory and died a preventable death.

“I won’t! Who do you take me for?”

“ _Secret-secret! I got a secret!!_ ” Will mutters, and Mike spares him a very fast smile so he doesn’t lose another life.

“Is that the song Jonathan keeps playing in the car on the way to school?”

“Yup. I can’t do the low singing bits, though. I think he’s making another playlist? I don’t know what happened to the last one, actually.”

He means to ask his brother when half past the hour rolls around, but he forgets; amidst _very nearly almost_ ranking on the Dig Dug hi-score table, with Max giving him enthusiastic pointers - “just like we practiced, c’mon!” - and then Mike, asking if he wants to sleep over? There’s other stuff on his mind.

This being normal stuff was hectic.

But it was a _huge_ relief.

“I called Mom and she said it was okay, so long as I came back for my school things,” he pleads, “but we _really_ gotta go to the antiques store before it closes. Please, Jonathan?”

Jonatha sighs.

“I _guess_ ,” he says theatrically, drawing out the last word, and Will throws out a triumphant fist. “Any of your buddies need a ride home?”

It’s a no, so they go straight to the store. In-and-out, quick as a flash. Will had gathered up everyone’s quarters before leaving, except from, obviously, Lucas, and they were really starting to weigh down his jeans quite awkwardly.

They steal away after dinner, and Mike says, “hey, Will… can I see it?”

In the safety of the basement - in the muted light that never got switched off, not for Mike and not for Will - he pulls the piece out of his backpack, and lets Mike admire how it glitters under the glow of the lamps.

“This is _awesome_. I can’t wait for Lucas to see it.”

“I can’t wait to see it after Dustin’s finished with it. We only have to wait until the seventeenth, right?”

“Right,” Mike says. His smile is blinding. It’s pretty sweet, how excited he gets to exchange Christmas presents every year.

“Hey,” says Will, trying to figure how to approach a new subject. “Listen, the day after the exchange...”

“Uh-huh?”

He bundles himself into his sleeping bag, and nestles further into the blankets lining the couch. “That’s the first candle lighting night that my mom does. It lasts until the day after Christmas, so if you wanted to come over then, and loads of junk food, then that’d be cool.”

Mike sits up. He always takes the space on the floor, regardless of the protests of his guests. “Really?” he asks hopefully.

“Yeah. Mom’s not big on the prayers, but she does do the recital when she lights the candles every day. And the song, but I don’t know that one very well. I think it’s more of a thing to remember her Bubbe Horowitz by… Jonathan’s gonna try making latkes, though, that’s gonna be interesting.”

“Jonathan’s doing what, now?”

They both jump; Nancy’s made her way downstairs without either of them noticing.

“Cooking _lat-kuss_ ,” Mike says, carefully. “They’re like, these little potato pancakes. Right, Will?”

“I think they’re supposed to be. I’ve never seen good ones, Mom always burns them.” Will plays with the zipper on his sleeping bag: “or _melts_ them.”

That earns him a little giggle from Mike’s older sister, who keeps bustling around the sewing machine unit under the stairs. She’s humming a carol as she goes. It might be ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’, but Will’s not sure - mostly, it’s rare that she’s in this light a mood.

“How come you’re down here, Nancy?” Mike asks, tentatively, because he seems to have picked up on her cheerfulness too.

“No reason,” she replies brightly.

Mike looks at Will for answers. (Will doesn’t have any, so he shrugs.)

“Where’d Mom put the other yard sale things?”

“They’re on the landing, waiting to go in the attic. She wants a bulk Goodwill trip. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she says, and smiles, and drifts back upstairs. “Dad said not to stay up too late! See you tomorrow.”

The door to the basement clicks shut. The two are left in the silence once more. “She’s gotten nicer, but she’s gotten _weirder_ ,” Mike concludes, and hands back Lucas’s present, which Will stashes neatly in the pocket of his backpack.

“Older siblings are always weird, Mike.”

“You’ve got more experience with that than me...”

“Hey, that’s mean!”

And they remain like that, bickering and laughing quietly in the soft lighting, until they both begin to doze.

Before he finally drops off to sleep, Will takes in the all-too-familiar basement. The light that Mike leaves on, in the ever-present blanket fort; the net curtain over the door, through which he can see that it’s started snowing again. There’s delicate music filtering through the ceiling from upstairs.

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, he thinks, and then wonders if those are the right words at all, and then finally slips into that state he finds so rarely graces his unconsciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> My [main blog](http://futureboy.tumblr.com/) and my [fic blog](http://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com/) are here! Come say hi, if you want.


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